Villette

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER IX.

  ISIDORE.

  My time was now well and profitably filled up. What with teachingothers and studying closely myself, I had hardly a spare moment. It waspleasant. I felt I was getting, on; not lying the stagnant prey ofmould and rust, but polishing my faculties and whetting them to a keenedge with constant use. Experience of a certain kind lay before me, onno narrow scale. Villette is a cosmopolitan city, and in this schoolwere girls of almost every European nation, and likewise of very variedrank in life. Equality is much practised in Labassecour; though notrepublican in form, it is nearly so in substance, and at the desks ofMadame Beck's establishment the young countess and the young bourgeoisesat side by side. Nor could you always by outward indications decidewhich was noble and which plebeian; except that, indeed, the latter hadoften franker and more courteous manners, while the former bore awaythe bell for a delicately-balanced combination of insolence and deceit.In the former there was often quick French blood mixed with themarsh-phlegm: I regret to say that the effect of this vivacious fluidchiefly appeared in the oilier glibness with which flattery and fictionran from the tongue, and in a manner lighter and livelier, but quiteheartless and insincere.

  To do all parties justice, the honest aboriginal Labassecouriennes hadan hypocrisy of their own, too; but it was of a coarse order, such ascould deceive few. Whenever a lie was necessary for their occasions,they brought it out with a careless ease and breadth altogetheruntroubled by the rebuke of conscience. Not a soul in Madame Beck'shouse, from the scullion to the directress herself, but was above beingashamed of a lie; they thought nothing of it: to invent might not beprecisely a virtue, but it was the most venial of faults. "J'ai mentiplusieurs fois," formed an item of every girl's and woman's monthlyconfession: the priest heard unshocked, and absolved unreluctant. Ifthey had missed going to mass, or read a chapter of a novel, that wasanother thing: these were crimes whereof rebuke and penance were theunfailing weed.

  While yet but half-conscious of this state of things, and unlearned inits results, I got on in my new sphere very well. After the first fewdifficult lessons, given amidst peril and on the edge of a moralvolcano that rumbled under my feet and sent sparks and hot fumes intomy eyes, the eruptive spirit seemed to subside, as far as I wasconcerned. My mind was a good deal bent on success: I could not bearthe thought of being baffled by mere undisciplined disaffection andwanton indocility, in this first attempt to get on in life. Many hoursof the night I used to lie awake, thinking what plan I had best adoptto get a reliable hold on these mutineers, to bring this stiff-neckedtribe under permanent influence. In, the first place, I saw plainlythat aid in no shape was to be expected from Madame: her righteous planwas to maintain an unbroken popularity with the pupils, at any andevery cost of justice or comfort to the teachers. For a teacher to seekher alliance in any crisis of insubordination was equivalent tosecuring her own expulsion. In intercourse with her pupils, Madame onlytook to herself what was pleasant, amiable, and recommendatory; rigidlyrequiring of her lieutenants sufficiency for every annoying crisis,where to act with adequate promptitude was to be unpopular. Thus, Imust look only to myself.

  Imprimis--it was clear as the day that this swinish multitude were notto be driven by force. They were to be humoured, borne with verypatiently: a courteous though sedate manner impressed them; a very rareflash of raillery did good. Severe or continuous mental applicationthey could not, or would not, bear: heavy demand on the memory, thereason, the attention, they rejected point-blank. Where an English girlof not more than average capacity and docility would quietly take atheme and bind herself to the task of comprehension and mastery, aLabassecourienne would laugh in your face, and throw it back to youwith the phrase,--"Dieu, que c'est difficile! Je n'en veux pas. Celam'ennuie trop."

  A teacher who understood her business would take it back at once,without hesitation, contest, or expostulation--proceed with evenexaggerated care to smoothe every difficulty, to reduce it to the levelof their understandings, return it to them thus modified, and lay onthe lash of sarcasm with unsparing hand. They would feel the sting,perhaps wince a little under it; but they bore no malice against thissort of attack, provided the sneer was not _sour_, but _hearty_, andthat it held well up to them, in a clear, light, and bold type, so thatshe who ran might read, their incapacity, ignorance, and sloth. Theywould riot for three additional lines to a lesson; but I never knewthem rebel against a wound given to their self-respect: the little theyhad of that quality was trained to be crushed, and it rather liked thepressure of a firm heel than otherwise.

  By degrees, as I acquired fluency and freedom in their language, andcould make such application of its more nervous idioms as suited theircase, the elder and more intelligent girls began rather to like me intheir way: I noticed that whenever a pupil had been roused to feel inher soul the stirring of worthy emulation, or the quickening of honestshame, from that date she was won. If I could but once make their(usually large) ears burn under their thick glossy hair, all wascomparatively well. By-and-by bouquets began to be laid on my desk inthe morning; by way of acknowledgment for this little foreignattention, I used sometimes to walk with a select few duringrecreation. In the course of conversation it befel once or twice that Imade an unpremeditated attempt to rectify some of their singularlydistorted notions of principle; especially I expressed my ideas of theevil and baseness of a lie. In an unguarded moment, I chanced to saythat, of the two errors; I considered falsehood worse than anoccasional lapse in church-attendance. The poor girls were tutored toreport in Catholic ears whatever the Protestant teacher said. Anedifying consequence ensued. Something--an unseen, an indefinite, anameless--something stole between myself and these my best pupils: thebouquets continued to be offered, but conversation thenceforth becameimpracticable. As I paced the alleys or sat in the berceau, a girlnever came to my right hand but a teacher, as if by magic, appeared atmy left. Also, wonderful to relate, Madame's shoes of silence broughther continually to my back, as quick, as noiseless and unexpected, assome wandering zephyr.

  The opinion of my Catholic acquaintance concerning my spiritualprospects was somewhat naively expressed to me on one occasion. Apensionnaire, to whom I had rendered some little service, exclaimed oneday as she sat beside me: "Mademoiselle, what a pity you are aProtestant!"

  "Why, Isabelle?"

  "Parceque, quand vous serez morte--vous brulerez tout de suite dansl'Enfer."

  "Croyez-vous?"

  "Certainement que j'y crois: tout le monde le sait; et d'ailleurs lepretre me l'a dit."

  Isabelle was an odd, blunt little creature. She added, _sotto voce_:"Pour assurer votre salut la-haut, on ferait bien de vous bruler toutevive ici-bas."

  I laughed, as, indeed, it was impossible to do otherwise.

  * * * * *

  Has the reader forgotten Miss Ginevra Fanshawe? If so, I must beallowed to re-introduce that young lady as a thriving pupil of MadameBeck's; for such she was. On her arrival in the Rue Fossette, two orthree days after my sudden settlement there, she encountered me withvery little surprise. She must have had good blood in her veins, fornever was any duchess more perfectly, radically, unaffectedly_nonchalante_ than she: a weak, transient amaze was all she knew of thesensation of wonder. Most of her other faculties seemed to be in thesame flimsy condition: her liking and disliking, her love and hate,were mere cobweb and gossamer; but she had one thing about her thatseemed strong and durable enough, and that was--her selfishness.

  She was not proud; and--_bonne d'enfants_ as I was--she would forthwithhave made of me a sort of friend and confidant. She teased me with athousand vapid complaints about school-quarrels and household economy:the cookery was not to her taste; the people about her, teachers andpupils, she held to be despicable, because they were foreigners. I borewith her abuse of the Friday's salt fish and hard eggs--with herinvective against the soup, the bread, the coffee--with some patiencefor a time; but at last, wearied by iteration, I turned crusty, and puther to rights: a thing
I ought to have done in the very beginning, fora salutary setting down always agreed with her.

  Much longer had I to endure her demands on me in the way of work. Herwardrobe, so far as concerned articles of external wear, was well andelegantly supplied; but there were other habiliments not so carefullyprovided: what she had, needed frequent repair. She hatedneedle-drudgery herself, and she would bring her hose, &c. to me inheaps, to be mended. A compliance of some weeks threatening to resultin the establishment of an intolerable bore--I at last distinctly toldher she must make up her mind to mend her own garments. She cried onreceiving this information, and accused me of having ceased to be herfriend; but I held by my decision, and let the hysterics pass as theycould.

  Notwithstanding these foibles, and various others needless tomention--but by no means of a refined or elevating character--howpretty she was! How charming she looked, when she came down on a sunnySunday morning, well-dressed and well-humoured, robed in pale lilacsilk, and with her fair long curls reposing on her white shoulders.Sunday was a holiday which she always passed with friends resident intown; and amongst these friends she speedily gave me to understand wasone who would fain become something more. By glimpses and hints it wasshown me, and by the general buoyancy of her look and manner it was erelong proved, that ardent admiration--perhaps genuine love--was at hercommand. She called her suitor "Isidore:" this, however, she intimatedwas not his real name, but one by which it pleased her to baptizehim--his own, she hinted, not being "very pretty." Once, when she hadbeen bragging about the vehemence of "Isidore's" attachment, I asked ifshe loved him in return.

  "Comme cela," said she: "he is handsome, and he loves me todistraction, so that I am well amused. Ca suffit."

  Finding that she carried the thing on longer than, from her very fickletastes, I had anticipated, I one day took it upon me to make seriousinquiries as to whether the gentleman was such as her parents, andespecially her uncle--on whom, it appeared, she was dependent--would belikely to approve. She allowed that this was very doubtful, as she didnot believe "Isidore" had much money.

  "Do you encourage him?" I asked.

  "Furieusement sometimes," said she.

  "Without being certain that you will be permitted to marry him?"

  "Oh, how dowdyish you are! I don't want to be married. I am too young."

  "But if he loves you as much as you say, and yet it comes to nothing inthe end, he will be made miserable."

  "Of course he will break his heart. I should be shocked and,disappointed if he didn't."

  "I wonder whether this M. Isidore is a fool?" said I.

  "He is, about me; but he is wise in other things, a ce qu'on dit. Mrs.Cholmondeley considers him extremely clever: she says he will push hisway by his talents; all I know is, that he does little more than sighin my presence, and that I can wind him round my little finger."

  Wishing to get a more definite idea of this love-stricken M. Isidore;whose position seemed to me of the least secure, I requested her tofavour me with a personal description; but she could not describe: shehad neither words nor the power of putting them together so as to makegraphic phrases. She even seemed not properly to have noticed him:nothing of his looks, of the changes in his countenance, had touchedher heart or dwelt in her memory--that he was "beau, mais plutot belhomme que joli garcon," was all she could assert. My patience wouldoften have failed, and my interest flagged, in listening to her, butfor one thing. All the hints she dropped, all the details she gave,went unconsciously to prove, to my thinking, that M. Isidore's homagewas offered with great delicacy and respect. I informed her veryplainly that I believed him much too good for her, and intimated withequal plainness my impression that she was but a vain coquette. Shelaughed, shook her curls from her eyes, and danced away as if I hadpaid her a compliment.

  Miss Ginevra's school-studies were little better than nominal; therewere but three things she practised in earnest, viz. music, singing,and dancing; also embroidering the fine cambric handkerchiefs which shecould not afford to buy ready worked: such mere trifles as lessons inhistory, geography, grammar, and arithmetic, she left undone, or gotothers to do for her. Very much of her time was spent in visiting.Madame, aware that her stay at school was now limited to a certainperiod, which would not be extended whether she made progress or not,allowed her great licence in this particular. Mrs. Cholmondeley--her_chaperon_--a gay, fashionable lady, invited her whenever she hadcompany at her own house, and sometimes took her to evening-parties atthe houses of her acquaintance. Ginevra perfectly approved this mode ofprocedure: it had but one inconvenience; she was obliged to be welldressed, and she had not money to buy variety of dresses. All herthoughts turned on this difficulty; her whole soul was occupied withexpedients for effecting its solution. It was wonderful to witness theactivity of her otherwise indolent mind on this point, and to see themuch-daring intrepidity to which she was spurred by a sense ofnecessity, and the wish to shine.

  She begged boldly of Mrs. Cholmondeley--boldly, I say: not with an airof reluctant shame, but in this strain:--

  "My darling Mrs. C., I have nothing in the world fit to wear for yourparty next week; you _must_ give me a book-muslin dress, and then a_ceinture bleu celeste_: _do_--there's an angel! will you?"

  The "darling Mrs. C." yielded at first; but finding that applicationsincreased as they were complied with, she was soon obliged, like allMiss Fanshawe's friends, to oppose resistance to encroachment. After awhile I heard no more of Mrs. Cholmondeley's presents; but still,visiting went on, and the absolutely necessary dresses continued to besupplied: also many little expensive _etcetera_--gloves, bouquets, eventrinkets. These things, contrary to her custom, and even nature--forshe was not secretive--were most sedulously kept out of sight for atime; but one evening, when she was going to a large party for whichparticular care and elegance of costume were demanded, she could notresist coming to my chamber to show herself in all her splendour.

  Beautiful she looked: so young, so fresh, and with a delicacy of skinand flexibility of shape altogether English, and not found in the listof continental female charms. Her dress was new, costly, and perfect. Isaw at a glance that it lacked none of those finishing details whichcost so much, and give to the general effect such an air of tastefulcompleteness.

  I viewed her from top to toe. She turned airily round that I mightsurvey her on all sides. Conscious of her charms, she was in her besthumour: her rather small blue eyes sparkled gleefully. She was going tobestow on me a kiss, in her school-girl fashion of showing her delightsbut I said, "Steady! Let us be Steady, and know what we are about, andfind out the meaning of our magnificence"--and so put her off at arm'slength, to undergo cooler inspection.

  "Shall I do?" was her question.

  "Do?" said I. "There are different ways of doing; and, by my word, Idon't understand yours."

  "But how do I look?"

  "You look well dressed."

  She thought the praise not warm enough, and proceeded to directattention to the various decorative points of her attire. "Look at this_parure_," said she. "The brooch, the ear-rings, the bracelets: no onein the school has such a set--not Madame herself."

  "I see them all." (Pause.) "Did M. de Bassompierre give you thosejewels?"

  "My uncle knows nothing about them."

  "Were they presents from Mrs. Cholmondeley?"

  "Not they, indeed. Mrs. Cholmondeley is a mean, stingy creature; shenever gives me anything now."

  I did not choose to ask any further questions, but turned abruptly away.

  "Now, old Crusty--old Diogenes" (these were her familiar terms for mewhen we disagreed), "what is the matter now?"

  "Take yourself away. I have no pleasure in looking at you or your_parure_."

  For an instant, she seemed taken by surprise.

  "What now, Mother Wisdom? I have not got into debt for it--that is, notfor the jewels, nor the gloves, nor the bouquet. My dress is certainlynot paid for, but uncle de Bassompierre will pay it in the bill: henever notices items, but ju
st looks at the total; and he is so rich,one need not care about a few guineas more or less."

  "Will you go? I want to shut the door.... Ginevra, people may tell youyou are very handsome in that ball-attire; but, in _my_ eyes, you willnever look so pretty as you did in the gingham gown and plain strawbonnet you wore when I first saw you."

  "Other people have not your puritanical tastes," was her angry reply."And, besides, I see no right you have to sermonize me."

  "Certainly! I have little right; and you, perhaps, have still less tocome flourishing and fluttering into my chamber--a mere jay in borrowedplumes. I have not the least respect for your feathers, Miss Fanshawe;and especially the peacock's eyes you call a _parure_: very prettythings, if you had bought them with money which was your own, and whichyou could well spare, but not at all pretty under presentcircumstances."

  "On est la pour Mademoiselle Fanshawe!" was announced by the portress,and away she tripped.

  This semi-mystery of the _parure_ was not solved till two or three daysafterwards, when she came to make a voluntary confession.

  "You need not be sulky with me," she began, "in the idea that I amrunning somebody, papa or M. de Bassompierre, deeply into debt. Iassure you nothing remains unpaid for, but the few dresses I havelately had: all the rest is settled."

  "There," I thought, "lies the mystery; considering that they were notgiven you by Mrs. Cholmondeley, and that your own means are limited toa few shillings, of which I know you to be excessively careful."

  "Ecoutez!" she went on, drawing near and speaking in her mostconfidential and coaxing tone; for my "sulkiness" was inconvenient toher: she liked me to be in a talking and listening mood, even if I onlytalked to chide and listened to rail. "Ecoutez, chere grogneuse! I willtell you all how and about it; and you will then see, not only howright the whole thing is, but how cleverly managed. In the first place,I _must_ go out. Papa himself said that he wished me to see somethingof the world; he particularly remarked to Mrs. Cholmondeley, that,though I was a sweet creature enough, I had rather abread-and-butter-eating, school-girl air; of which it was his specialdesire that I should get rid, by an introduction to society here,before I make my regular debut in England. Well, then, if I go out, I_must_ dress. Mrs. Cholmondeley is turned shabby, and will give nothingmore; it would be too hard upon uncle to make him pay for _all_ thethings I need: _that_ you can't deny--_that_ agrees with your ownpreachments. Well, but SOMEBODY who heard me (quite by chance, I assureyou) complaining to Mrs. Cholmondeley of my distressed circumstances,and what straits I was put to for an ornament or two--_somebody_, farfrom grudging one a present, was quite delighted at the idea of beingpermitted to offer some trifle. You should have seen what a _blanc-bec_he looked when he first spoke of it: how he hesitated and blushed, andpositively trembled from fear of a repulse."

  "That will do, Miss Fanshawe. I suppose I am to understand that M.Isidore is the benefactor: that it is from him you have accepted thatcostly _parure_; that he supplies your bouquets and your gloves?"

  "You express yourself so disagreeably," said she, "one hardly knows howto answer; what I mean to say is, that I occasionally allow Isidore thepleasure and honour of expressing his homage by the offer of a trifle."

  "It comes to the same thing.... Now, Ginevra, to speak the plain truth,I don't very well understand these matters; but I believe you are doingvery wrong--seriously wrong. Perhaps, however, you now feel certainthat you will be able to marry M. Isidore; your parents and uncle havegiven their consent, and, for your part, you love him entirely?"

  "Mais pas du tout!" (she always had recourse to French when about tosay something specially heartless and perverse). "Je suis sa reine,mais il n'est pas mon roi."

  "Excuse me, I must believe this language is mere nonsense and coquetry.There is nothing great about you, yet you are above profiting by thegood nature and purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference.You love M. Isidore far more than you think, or will avow."

  "No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love athousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold toIsidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admirehim; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is...."

  And she seemed to make an effort to reflect. In this I encouraged her.

  "Yes!" I said, "try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. Tome it seems in a great mess--chaotic as a rag-bag."

  "It is something in this fashion," she cried out ere long: "the man istoo romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than Ifind it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with allsorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, norintend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rather trying tojustify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and totalk sense,--for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at myease with you, old lady--you, you dear crosspatch--who take me at mylowest, and know me to be coquettish, and ignorant, and flirting, andfickle, and silly, and selfish, and all the other sweet things you andI have agreed to be a part of my character."

  "This is all very well," I said, making a strenuous effort to preservethat gravity and severity which ran risk of being shaken by thiswhimsical candour, "but it does not alter that wretched business of thepresents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like a good, honest girl, and sendthem back."

  "Indeed, I won't," said she, stoutly.

  "Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It stands to reason that byaccepting his presents you give him to understand he will one dayreceive an equivalent, in your regard..."

  "But he won't," she interrupted: "he has his equivalent now, in thepleasure of seeing me wear them--quite enough for him: he is onlybourgeois."

  This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured me of thetemporary weakness which had made me relax my tone and aspect. Sherattled on:

  "My present business is to enjoy youth, and not to think of fetteringmyself, by promise or vow, to this man or that. When first I sawIsidore, I believed he would help me to enjoy it I believed he would becontent with my being a pretty girl; and that we should meet and partand flutter about like two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold! Ifind him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling and thoughtful.Bah! Les penseurs, les hommes profonds et passionnes ne sont pas a mongout. Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better. Va pour les beauxfats et les jolis fripons! Vive les joies et les plaisirs! A bas lesgrandes passions et les severes vertus!"

  She looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave none.

  "J'aime mon beau Colonel," she went on: "je n'aimerai jamais son rival.Je ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois, moi!"

  I now signified that it was imperatively necessary my apartment shouldbe relieved of the honour of her presence: she went away laughing.